share time. sometimes i get down. not like Cutting A Rug getting down, tho certain conditions do allow for that particular phenomenon to occur, but the particular seasonal fog of My Particular Body + Change In Said Body + How My Perception Of That Is Wired In My Particular Brain getting down where no amount or combination there of of coffee/cat time (probably would help if i had a cat to have time with)/netflix+cereal/ok fine i'll go for a walk around the block/talking with roommate Beth Leppard will cut through. sigh. 'twas even a semi recent moment when i looked at my phone, simultaneously wishing it and thanking it that it did not have the capacity to dial for me just from me looking at it, wondering if i should call my erstwhile therapist to see if her plant/sensible shoes/corner of the room over her right shoulder would be available for me to stare at while i talk to the rest of the room and oh she just happens to be in there listening and repeating things back to me in a learned way.
that moment quickly passed.
and in the wide open field of that next moment, a new option presented itself to me in the form of a text: what are you doing sunday? (nothing.) do you want to be a russian dancer for CHWS? (yes.) details to follow. (ok great!)
details being the requisite time and place, sign this waver. oh, and bring a dance belt. uh. . . . scanning the email list and realizing i am the only female bodied individual cast in this fictional ballet company. . . uh, excuse me, costumer? i must clarify. . . ah yes, no worries? dance belts will be provided? great. . . that was me saying YES to being filmed half naked while in the snag of a body image issue hick up. well, ilvs, how bad could this be?
well, ilvs, turns out not bad at all, once i got past the Am I Actually Going Pant-less On Camera? Yes I Do Believe I Am! factoid. follow up factoid: nothing, and i mean nothing, negates negative self image issues like wearing SOMEONE ELSE'S DANCE BELT for 3 hours in a chilly workout room with 2 walls of mirrors and 1 bank of windows that look over pike street, in the company of 8 sculpted male dancer friends, also in dance belts (their own), while your Not That Kind Of Lady Friend lady friend, dressed as a russian ballet troupe's mean queen bee, smacks your calves with a riding crop while yelling 'CALF!! CALF!!!' in a thick russian accent, all the while cameras are rolling on the set of your friend's web series to be viewed in the not so distant future by probably most of your friends and pretty much everyone else in the far reaching corners of your community.
so, to wes and the cast and crew for both fully witnessing and fully documenting both my external and my internal growth, a big ridiculous, awkward, liberating, scintillating, challenging, heartfelt Thank You. who knew that's exactly what i needed?